Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  “Name?”

  “Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson.”

  “One moment,” the voice said, and the tiny door closed again.

  The brigadier, who was not accustomed to being kept waiting on a doorstep, stood tapping a well-shod foot. Half a minute passed, and he put umbrella to steel once again.

  This time, the big door opened, and a man wearing the black uniform of a commissionaire, an association of retired military people who provided reception and security services to businesses and some government officers, ushered him in. “Briefcase and umbrella on the moving belt,” he said, pointing. His uniform sleeve wore the stripes of a master sergeant.

  Fife-Simpson set them down and watched them stop under a machine of some sort, then watched as the two objects were x-rayed.

  “Hat,” the commissionaire said, removing it for him, turning out the lining and feeling it everywhere, then handed it back to him. “Overcoat off, please,” the man said.

  Fife-Simpson shucked off the garment and handed it to him.

  The man felt every square inch of the coat, then handed it back to him and gave him a very thorough frisking, not forgetting his crotch.

  The commissionaire handed him a slip of paper. “Collect your things. Elevator to the sixth floor, turn left, end of the corridor,” he said.

  Fife-Simpson collected his things, then got on the elevator and pressed the button, glancing at the paper. Room 630. The elevator arrived and opened, and he turned left and marched down the corridor. The door straight ahead of him opened before he could reach for the knob, and a middle-aged woman in a frumpy business suit greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Fife-Simpson,” she said.

  “Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he replied. He then noticed that they were standing not in an office, but a kind of library, lined with steel shelving and with a matching conference table in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen steel chairs.

  “Have a seat,” the woman said. “Your office is not ready just yet. Someone will come for you.” She stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Fife-Simpson alone.

  The brigadier looked around the room in disgust. He hung his British Warm coat on a peg beside the door, along with his umbrella, then set his briefcase and trilby hat on the table and sat down. He opened the briefcase, extracted a copy of the Daily Telegraph, and began reading the newspaper. Waiting was a skill best learned in the Royal Marines, he thought, where much of it was required.

  Twenty-one minutes later the door was opened by a younger, better-dressed woman. “Good morning, Brigadier,” she said. “If you would come with me, please.”

  Once again, Fife-Simpson gathered his things and followed her at a quick clip down the hallway. As they passed a set of elegant double doors on their left, she said, without slowing down, “Director’s office,” then led on to the end of the hallway, where a single door was marked with a shiny brass plate, reading DEPUTY DIRECTOR. She opened it, revealing an oak-paneled room with a desk, two chairs, a small conference table at one end with four more chairs, and two doors to his right. There was also a sofa, suitable for napping, he observed.

  “Closet and loo there,” she said, pointing. Then she took his coat, hat, and umbrella from him and hung them in the closet. She produced a medium-sized buff envelope and shook the contents out onto the desktop. “Your credentials,” she said, hanging a plastic card—with his photograph, rank, and name—around his neck by a ribbon. She handed him a British passport, bound in red leather. “Your diplomatic passport,” she said. “Sign it, please.” She handed him a pen.

  He opened the passport, read it to see that the information about him was correct, then signed it and returned the pen to her.

  She handed him a printed sheet of paper. “Please take this to the armory, in subbasement two, where you will be issued with a weapon.” She indicated two sheets of paper on the desk. “Please sign the document on the left, which is the Official Secrets Act, and the one on the right, which is a receipt for the ID card and the passport.”

  He signed them. “When may I see the director?”

  “On Monday morning,” she said. “Ten AM. She is away for the weekend.”

  “How may I contact her, if it should become necessary?”

  “Call the main switchboard here, and they will locate her and patch you through. If she is available,” she added. She walked to a bookcase, took a book from a shelf, and handed it to him. “This is a history of the intelligence services, combined with a manual of conduct for officers. You should finish reading it before Monday morning.”

  “Right,” he said. “Do I have a secretary?”

  “I am your secretary,” she said. “My name is Marcia Cartwright; my office is next door, to your left, and you may ring or summon me by pressing the green button on your telephone. The red button is for the director.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Cartwright,” he said.

  “Please call me Marcia or Cartwright. We’re informal here—most of the time. The director’s secretary is Mrs. Prudence Green. She prefers to be addressed as Mrs. Green.”

  “Thank you again,” he said, then sat down at his desk, waited for her to close the door, then opened the book she had given him and began to read.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours passed, then he closed the book, picked up the weapon requisition, and made his way down to subbasement two. The door to the armory stood open, revealing a wooden counter backed by a heavy steel screen. He walked in, found a bell on the counter, and rang it.

  A uniformed Royal Marines master sergeant became visible through the screen, then opened the door. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson, I presume, sir,” he said.

  “Correct,” the brigadier replied.

  “Welcome to MI-6, sir,” the man said. “How may I help you?”

  Fife-Simpson put the requisition on the countertop. “I wish to be armed,” he replied.

  “Of course, sir. What sort of weapon did you have in mind?”

  “Something small, light, and concealable, perhaps a .380 semiautomatic.”

  “I believe I have just the thing, sir,” the man said. “One moment.” He disappeared through the screen and returned with a wooden box. “Here we are,” he said, opening it. “A Colt Government .380, small, flat, and light. And a small, but effective, silencer.”

  “Perfect,” the brigadier replied.

  “What sort of holster do you require, sir?”

  “Shoulder, I should think.”

  The sergeant disappeared again and returned with a cardboard box. “If you’ll just slip off your jacket, I’ll fit it for you, sir.”

  Fife-Simpson did so, and the sergeant slipped him into the leather and adjusted the straps. “How’s that, sir?”

  The brigadier shoved the pistol into the holster. “Perfect,” he said.

  “As to ammunition, would fifty rounds do you?”

  “That would be good.”

  “Any preference, sir? We like the Federal Hydra-Shok.”

  “Very good.”

  The sergeant left and returned with a plastic box; he removed the pistol from its holster, popped the magazine, and loaded it and the spare in the box speedily. He tucked the pistol back into its holster, then inserted the spare magazine and the silencer into their receptacles on the holster. “There you are, sir. Is there anything else you’d like?”

  “I’d like a knife, please. A switchblade, if you have it.”

  “Of course, sir.” He left and returned with another wooden box, containing a six-inch-long knife. He flicked it open and handed it to the brigadier. “Careful with it, sir. It’s razor-sharp. You could shave with it, in a pinch. And the blade is five and three-quarter inches.”

  Fife-Simpson hefted the knife, felt its blade, folded it, and slipped it into a hip pocket, where his tailor had made a place for it.
/>   “Sign here, sir,” the sergeant said, handing him the form and a pen.

  The brigadier signed it, slipped on his jacket, and picked up the ammunition box. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “Good day.” He left the room and marched back to his office, where he found on his desk a roast beef sandwich and a thermos of coffee and a note from Cartwright. There’s a canteen on subcellar 3, if you prefer.

  21

  Stone awoke the following morning to see Felicity coming out of her bathroom adjusting her clothing. “Must flee,” she said. “I had a text a few minutes ago, and my presence is required in London.”

  Stone rang Stan and asked him to transport her to the dock.

  Felicity bent over and kissed his penis. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said to it.

  “You are most welcome, as always,” Stone replied.

  She kissed him lingeringly on the lips and departed.

  Stone rang downstairs for breakfast.

  * * *

  —

  Dame Felicity arrived in the little alley off Shaftesbury Avenue and pulled up to the steel door. As she stepped from her car the door opened, and the commissionaire greeted her. “Good morning, Director,” he said, giving her a little bow. “By the way,” he said, “your new deputy arrived yesterday.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Felicity said. She took the elevator to the sixth floor and, noting the closed door at the end of the hallway, opened her own door and walked in. Her two secretaries rose and greeted her; Cartwright followed her into her office.

  “Director,” she said, “Brigadier Fife-Simpson arrived yesterday and is waiting in his office to see you. Shall I summon him?”

  “Not yet, my dear,” Felicity replied. “Not until I’ve thought of something for him to do. Do you have any ideas?”

  “How much substance are we talking about?” Cartwright asked.

  “Not very much.”

  “I see. May I have a few minutes to think about that, ma’am?”

  “Of course. Let me know when you’ve come up with something.”

  As Cartwright reached her desk, her phone rang, and she picked it up. “Good morning, Director’s office.”

  “This is Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” a gruff male voice said.

  “Good morning, Brigadier. How may I help you?”

  “I wish to see the director at the earliest possible moment.”

  “The director is occupied at the moment and has a full schedule for today. Let me call you back when she can fit you in.”

  “Right.” He hung up.

  “Mrs. Green,” Cartwright said to the other secretary, “think of something for Fife-Simpson to do.”

  “Go bugger himself, perhaps?” she replied.

  “As much as I’d like to suggest that, perhaps not.”

  “Oh, well. You asked.”

  Mrs. Green had a thought. She rapped on the director’s door, was told to enter, and she entered. “I’ve had a thought, Director,” she said.

  “Pray tell me.”

  “Perhaps an inspection tour of some of our stations?”

  “Primary stations, or secondary?”

  “Perhaps both?”

  “It’s a lovely thought,” Felicity said, “but he might twig to what we’re doing. However . . .” She thought for a moment. “Please get me Lance Cabot.”

  “Of course, Director,” Mrs. Green said, smiling. She went back to her desk, placed the call, then announced to the director, “Mr. Cabot for you on the overseas line.”

  Felicity picked up her phone. “Lance, how are you?” she asked brightly.

  “Very well, thank you, Felicity. And you?”

  “Oh, very well. Lance, are you acquainted with a Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson?”

  “I seem to recall a colonel by that name.”

  “He’s been promoted.”

  “Sort of a ramrod type?”

  “That’s the one. He’s been appointed my new deputy.”

  “Somehow I feel that you did not select him.”

  “You might say that,” Felicity said. “He’ll be doing a bit of orientation with our outlying stations, as well as with our allies.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “And I was wondering if one or more of your people might, ah, orient him for a week or so.”

  “I expect I can find someone to handle that—someone I don’t like very much.”

  “Ideal,” Felicity said. “May I have him arrive at Langley the day after tomorrow?”

  “Certainly. I’ll be leaving that afternoon. I can see him in the morning, then hand him off to a minion.”

  “How perfect,” Felicity said. “I’ll tell him to report to you at ten AM.”

  “I’ll have staff accumulate some reading for him, then give him the ten-cent tour.”

  “Wonderful. Are you coming my way?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” Lance replied.

  “May I entertain you at lunch?”

  “That would be delightful. Thursday all right?”

  “One o’clock at the Reform Club, then?”

  “See you there.”

  “Fly safely.” Felicity hung up and buzzed Cartwright. “I’ll see the brigadier now,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  Fife-Simpson was started from a doze by a buzzing noise. It took a moment for him to realize that it was coming from his telephone, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Brigadier,” Cartwright said, “the director will see you now.” She hung up.

  Fife-Simpson leapt to his feet, got into his suit jacket, checked the mirror on the back of the door, then trotted down the hall. He was shown into the director’s office immediately.

  “Good morning, Brigadier,” Felicity said, indicating that he should sit.

  “Good morning, Director,” he said, taking the chair opposite her.

  “First of all, may I welcome you to the service?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “I have a task for you, which I believe you will find enlightening. It’s the sort of thing I would ordinarily do myself, but I find myself a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

  “Whatever I can do, Director.”

  “Good. Pack a bag and present yourself, at ten o’clock in the morning the day after tomorrow in Langley, Virginia, to Lance Cabot, the director of central intelligence, at CIA headquarters.”

  Fife-Simpson sat up straighter. “And what am I to do there?”

  “You are to look and listen, ask questions, and, if necessary, answer some, from a selection of the Agency’s people, with an eye toward assessing the current relationship between the CIA and our service, and looking for ways to improve it. Stay as long as you need to, and on return, write a report summarizing your observations and your suggestions, for my eyes only. I may see fit to distribute it to a short list of our people at a later date.”

  “I’d be very happy to, ma’am,” he said.

  “And while you’re over there, pop into our embassy in Washington, pay your respects to the ambassador, and have a talk with our station chief and his deputy. Find out what they’re working on, and see what, if anything, they need to do their work better.”

  “How long should I stay, Director?”

  “As long as it takes. Cartwright will arrange your schedule and book your airline seat and hotel accommodations. You should probably stay in D.C., since Langley is in a more rural setting.”

  The brigadier stood and nearly saluted, but caught himself. “Thank you, Director. I’ll report upon return.”

  “Very good, Brigadier,” she said, then turned to open a file and gaze at it, dismissing him.

  Fife-Simpson marched out. Felicity breathed a sigh of relief.

  22

  Stone was reading in the library th
e following day when Rose let herself in, then sat in his lap. “Watch out for Winston Churchill,” he said, moving the book to a side table. “You could bruise yourself.”

  She kissed him fulsomely. “I’m glad to see you,” she said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied, kissing her back. “Your arrival was the signal to the staff to get lunch ready. Would you like something first?”

  “Perhaps a glass of sherry.”

  Stone got up, took a decanter from the bar, and poured her a glass.

  “Mmmm,” she said, tasting it. “Delicious. What is it?”

  “It’s a dry Oloroso,” Stone replied. “Called Dos Cortados.”

  “I thought Olorosos were sweet,” she said.

  “Most are, this one isn’t.” He poured himself one, and they settled into the Chesterfield sofa.

  “Tell me,” she said. “I’ve heard from a friend or two that someone has been asking questions about me. Would that have anything to do with you?”

  “I expect it has something to do with the fact that I have two very good friends who want to know all about everybody who has anything to do with me.”

  “I expect I can guess who they are.”

  “I expect you can.”

  “Was there anything they didn’t tell you that you want to know?”

  “A great deal, but right now only one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Why did you place St. George’s Hospital at Hyde Park Corner?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to tell anybody that I’m working down at Tooting,” she said, laughing. “Hyde Park Corner sounds so much better.”

  “Perhaps to anyone who doesn’t possess an A to Z Guide,” Stone said. “I’m surprised to know that you haven’t been trained to lie better than that.”

  “They didn’t train me to lie at medical school.”

  “Then that explains why you do it so badly.”

  “I expect so.”

  “I’m curious, though. Why did you hang on to your married name when you were divorced?”

  “Because I didn’t want my fellow students and professors to know that I was being divorced,” she said. “I just didn’t want to explain. However, I can tell you that I recently signed a number of letters to various organizations, including the medical registry, informing them that my name has been changed to Mary Rose McGill Balfour, and to correct their records to that effect. I left the McGill in there so that anyone looking for me by that name might find it.”